


The Killer Queen

by IncurableNecromantic



Series: Cannibal Rumpus Asshole Universe [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Cannibal Rumpus Asshole Factory, Crack, F/F, Gen, M/M, Sequel, Transvestites, an apartment in South Beach, black market organ dealing, but Hannibal does try, gratuitous The Birdcage references, murder besties, nemeses - Freeform, two guesses who's going to be the Nathan Lane
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 01:21:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2005557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurableNecromantic/pseuds/IncurableNecromantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abel Gideon and Frederick Chilton are alive, more or less well, and on the lam in South Beach, Miami Beach, Florida.  </p><p>And living above a drag bar.</p><p>  <i>A post-Season 2 sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1380766/chapters/2890492">Cannibal Rumpus Asshole Factory</a>.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

grahamCracker RIGHT NOW opened memo on board HannibalFuckingLecterFuckingEatsPeopleYouDickfucks

grahamCracker: So, how are you two doing?  
grahamCracker: Making any progress?  
chiltonHead RIGHT NOW responded to the memo.  
chiltonHead: Oh yes. We’re doing fine. It’s not a particularly smooth drive but it’s better than nothing.  
chiltonHead: Here is a lightly edited car selfie.  
\-- chiltonHead posted the file “cattybitchroadtrip.jpeg” to HannibalFuckingLecterFuckingEatsPeopleYouDickfucks \--  
grahamCracker: Uh.  
grahamCracker: You guys look well.  
grahamCracker: Heh.  
grahamCracker: I see what you mean about “lightly edited.”  
chiltonHead: Well, we can’t exactly show you a hint of where we are, geographically speaking.  
grahamCracker: No, I mean about Gideon’s mouth.  
chiltonHead: What about it?  
grahamCracker: Obviously he’s not really wearing makeup.   
chiltonHead: Yes, he is.  
grahamCracker: What.  
grahamCracker: Really?  
chiltonHead: Yes.  
chiltonHead: Abel is a transvestite.  
grahamCracker: Uh-huh.  
grahamCracker: You sure he’s not a drag queen?  
grahamCracker: Admittedly an aging drag queen in weird Florida snowbird frosted pink lipstick, but still...   
cain’ttouchthis RIGHT NOW responded to the memo.  
cain’ttouchthis: The lipcolor is in fact Maybelline’s SuperStay 24 in Infinite Petal, fuck you very much.  
cain’ttouchthis: Also, calling me an aging drag queen is really rich coming from the man who put his doctor’s cock in his mouth...  
grahamCracker: It was a ortolan!  
cain’ttouchthis: ...blindfolded.  
grahamCracker: I was not blindfolded. I maintained eye contact the whole time.  
cain’ttouchthis: Very sexy, Mr. Graham.  
grahamCracker: This is so beside the point I won’t even bother to ask how you know about that.  
chiltonHead: (Beverly Katz)  
grahamCracker: And anyway it was all an elaborate ruse.  
cain’ttouchthis: Of course.  
grahamCracker: How are you even IMing while driving?  
grahamCracker: I know you’ve got one of those disabled driver set-ups. How do you have a hand free?  
cain’ttouchthis: I don’t.  
cain’ttouchthis: Frederick is taking dictation.  
chiltonHead: It’s true, I am.  
grahamCracker: God damn you’re fast. There’s almost no time between one message and another.  
chiltonHead: I’m using both hands. One per phone.  
cain’ttouchthis: He’s ambi-text-rous.  
chiltonHead: I can’t believe I had to type that.  
grahamCracker: Well, clearly you two are doing just fine.  
grahamCracker: I should let you know that there will be a general move towards catching Dr. Lecter in the next week or two.  
cain’ttouchthis: Oh, cheers.  
chiltonHead: What’s the story on me and my chances of returning if you get him?  
chiltonHead: I mean, obviously Abel can’t return but they have to know I didn’t kill those federal agents.  
grahamCracker: That will probably come out, you’re right, but there is the little matter of you escaping from a federal prison.  
cain’ttouchthis: Really, Frederick.  
cain’ttouchthis: “Duh,” as they say.  
chiltonHead: I want it recognized that my devotion to the truth is so overwhelming that I recorded my companion’s disdainful comment in almost precisely the tone he used.  
cain’ttouchthis: Noted.  
grahamCracker: Okay, you boys have fun.  
grahamCracker: And, uh, sorry about the lipstick thing.  
cain’ttouchthis: You know I can’t stay mad at you for long.

***

“Are you sure about this?” Dr. Frederick Chilton asked.

Dr. Abel Gideon gave him a look. “Of course not, Frederick. I mean, if they have so much as slightly uneven hardwood I’m fucked. But do we really have a choice, when you refuse to get out of the car?”

Frederick had to concede that this was a fairly good point. He did refuse to get out of the car and they didn’t have any other options.

“Well. Just. Is there anything I…” He waved a hand a little, trying to indicate the entire situation.

Abel wheeled himself forward and patted Frederick on the knee. “No. You’re completely useless,” Abel said cheerfully. “I should have known you would be. You really do need me.”

Frederick frowned. “Just because I’m not willing to kill people willy-nilly doesn’t mean--”

“Well, no, it really does,” Abel said. “I mean. Think about it. I got out of the hospital on my own. This car is made so that I can drive myself wherever I need to go. At this point, I’m honestly just with you because you’re pretty.”

“I had the idea of escaping in the first place!”

“Mm-hmm. And what a clever boy you are,” Abel replied. “Now sit tight. I’m going to go see if they want to break their lease.”

Abel wheeled himself into the main entrance of the nightclub, smiling fetchingly at one of the bouncers. The young man in studded leather straps winked and exchanged a few words with him, lifting one of Abel’s hands to his lips.

Abel smiled, patted the man’s cheek fondly, and disappeared through the glitzy glass doors.

Frederick drove halfway around the block, parked, and settled in to wait in the car, a fleece-wearing nervous wreck in the middle of South Beach, Florida.

***

The original plan had been to escape to Rio de Janeiro. But by the time they’d gotten off the street, into fresh clothing, and found a vehicle, they’d hashed out a simpler plan. The FBI would surely alert Interpol and even if they managed to find passports and identification that would change their names, there was little enough they could do about their faces, Frederick’s limp, and Abel’s legs.

“Well, let’s go to earth for a bit and let things die down,” Abel had reasoned as they churned down 95 towards Georgia. “Then we’ll work out something to do.”

“Fine,” Frederick had agreed. “I think I know just the place.”

Therapy with Will Graham had not been a complete bust, when it came down to it. If he hadn’t spent so much time with a mad fishing enthusiast from the Southern United States he almost certainly never would have heard of Pensacola at all.

Frederick knew he would never be accused of being “outdoorsy.” His idea of a vacation was one spent in a city, surrounded by food and culturally significant structures and creature comforts. Tending a windowbox was more than enough nature for him.

The fish camps were his idea of hell. He hated the mosquitoes, the mud, the press of humidity on all sides. He hated the squalor, the poverty, the grind and crackle of his sweating, filthy skin beneath his clothes, his inescapable animal condition. He hated the persistent suspicion that there was something here, something deep and spiritual and even significant for him that would always be lost to him, as long as he craved cleanness and comfort and culture and position and superiority.

Abel didn’t seem to have any trouble with that at all. Part of their newfound situation required Frederick to restrain his tendency to psychoanalyze Abel and he did his utmost to keep his part of the bargain, now that he was down to his last kidney. Abel paddled along in a rowboat with the other inhabitants of the camp, talking only a little, but managing to fit in in a way Frederick simply could not.

(He was a pathological narcissist and a psychotic, Frederick kept thinking to himself. He shouldn’t be that charismatic.)

They’d spent two months living off the grid entirely. No one would ever have found them down here, hidden in the bald cypresses and the wide, brown river. They lived in an ancient, half-dilapidated shack on stilts and fished for their food. Abel was able to get around more or less efficiently in a rowboat and proved himself a master with a paring knife.

If Frederick never ate fish again, it would be too soon.

Before his capture, Frederick had emptied his bank accounts. They kept that money in a hiding place in the cabin and after two months Frederick thought it might just become possible to live in a city again.

Abel took a look at the money and shrugged. “Fine. But we’ve got to get in touch with a banker.”

“Excuse me,” Frederick said.

“We can’t live off of that forever,” Abel said. “There’s only so much the black market can do for me, anyway, and unless you want to get a job as a grocery bagger we’ll have to be clever with our finances.”

Frederick conceded that point. “Well, Jesus saves. I suppose we’ll invest.”

They left the fish camp in about the condition they found it and bought a car and a pair of smartphones on their stop in town.

The first post-fish camp shower and shave reigned in Frederick’s imagination as one of the most pleasant experiences of his life. He emerged from it to find Abel carefully applying a second coat of mascara the closet mirror.

“Oh...” he’d said.

“No,” Abel had replied.

“You don’t even know what I--”

“I do,” Abel said, unimpressed. “I do, trust me. The answer is ‘no.’ Let’s get something to eat.”

Frederick thought they’d surely be killed, if Abel was going to go out and about in his makeup.

They didn’t.

Quite the opposite, as it happened.

Unrelatedly, packing organs for sale was remarkably easy. He really never would have thought.

They made their way down into South Beach. Frederick was willing to go anywhere that wasn’t a rural squatter’s colony and even the vapid lights of Miami warmed his heart. To think, he could have a cup of coffee in a matter of minutes with only a miniscule likelihood of finding something swimming in it.

Miniscule, but not none. It was Miami, after all.

He and Abel booked a terrible motel room for a month. Frederick busied himself by making piece with the roaches. With a shoe.

But it was Miami, and it was sunshine and good God, cafés, first and greatest bliss of humanity.

He and Abel spent quite a bit of time wandering up and down the streets nearest the ocean. Many of the nightclubs in the city were on that boulevard, facing the water, and the clean Art Deco style soothed Frederick’s soul.

“Now that’s the apartment we want,” he said one evening, as they walked past a drag bar called The Killer Queen. “Top floor. I’m sure we could see the water from there and the noise wouldn’t be too terribly much.”

Abel held his wheels still and looked up. “Busy part of town.” he said in a thoughtful voice. “Heavily populated by nonsmoking body-conscious health-addicts. And there is the drag to consider. There’s a decent likelihood that anonymity is prized around here. That would make things easier.”

Frederick winced a little. “Bit fey, of course.”

“The man with the habitual tendency to wear a large tiger’s eye ring and semi-erotically fondle the handle of his walking stick said to the wheelchair-bound transvestite. Flamboyance obviously the antithesis of everything we stand for.”

“Well, we’re certainly not at Lecter levels of flamboyance.”

“Frederick, it’s simply impossible to be at his level. Let’s bring the comparison down to allow for the limits of the human form.”

“Are you claiming that Dr. Lecter is not human?”

“He’s either a beast or a god. I’ll let you know when I’ve narrowed it down,” Abel replied. “In any event, let’s see what we can learn about this apartment.”

What they learned about the apartment was that it was owned by Joel and Ethel Fuchs, a pair of octogenarians from Ohio.

“Well, we’ll find something else,” Frederick had whispered, hovering over Abel’s shoulder as they read from the screen of a library computer. “Maybe something further down the street?”

Abel had frowned. “Do you know, I really quite like this one,” he’d murmured. “I think perhaps we could get it, if we played things right.”

Frederick didn’t want to ask what he meant. He had a terrible feeling that he knew.

“Listen, I don’t think an apartment is worth calling undue attention to ourselves.”

“I’m not going to draw any attention to us,” Abel said. “And neither are you. Just tell me this: if that apartment was to go on the market tomorrow, could we buy it?”

Frederick made a noncommittal noise. “Probably not,” Frederick said. “What with our lack of identification and birth records…”

Abel peered up at him from under his immaculately plucked eyebrows. “Frederick. Don’t talk nonsense. Do we have the money?”

“Possibly,” Frederick allowed.

Abel sneered.  “Has anyone ever told you that your tendency to be so mysterious is so attractive?”

“No.”

“Good. I was worried that you’d been lied to.” Abel sat back in his seat and drummed his fingers on the table, gazing at the data on the screen. “Just make sure we have the money. Leave the documents to me.”

A librarian shushed them. Frederick decided that it was time for them to disappear.

***

chiltonHead RIGHT NOW opened memo on board HannibalFuckingLecterFuckingEatsPeopleYouDickfucks

chiltonHead: Any progress on the Lecter front?  
grahamCracker RIGHT NOW responded to the memo.  
grahamCracker: Not as such.  
grahamCracker: We’re kind of taking it slow, you know?  
grahamCracker: I think he wants me to run away to Paris with him.  
grahamCracker: Sort of a Casablanca kind of deal.  
grahamCracker: Also I might have saved him from murder pigs.  
grahamCracker: And then let him cut a guy’s face off in my living room.  
grahamCracker: In hindsight it’s been a pretty busy week.  
grahamCracker: I think we’re bonding, actually.  
grahamCracker: We’ve had a lot of dinners together and destroyed evidence together and stuff.  
grahamCracker: It’s kind of nice.  
chiltonHead: Eyes on the prize, Mr. Graham.  
chiltonHead: Be so good as to remember that he framed us for murder.  
grahamCracker: Yeah, but you know...I don’t actually care too much about you.  
grahamCracker: Sorry. But I don’t.  
grahamCracker: And I can kind of rationalize what he did to me. I mean, I’m still pissed, but not as pissed as I was.  
chiltonHead: That isn’t as much bonding as it is Stockholm Syndrome.  
grahamCracker: Yeah, says the guy on a world tour with his disemboweler.  
chiltonHead: It’s a completely different situation and you know it.  
cain’ttouchthis RIGHT NOW responded to the memo.  
cain’ttouchthis: Frederick, can you be a love and pick up some milk on your way home?  
chiltonHead: Sure. Skim?  
cain’ttouchthis: You’re a darling.   
grahamCracker: Uh-huh.  
grahamCracker: Yeah, I absolutely see what you’re talking about.  
grahamCracker: Totally different.  
grahamCracker: Hannibal always sends me out for heavy cream.

***

“I’ve got to start patronizing the Killer Queen,” Abel announced.

“Why?”

“They’ll have to get used to seeing me as a customer. I can’t exactly roll in, butcher the elderly, and roll out without attracting some attention,” Abel said. “I’m not exactly forgettable.”

This was a good point. Today’s lip color was Givenchy’s Grenat Initié paired with a five-part Morticia Addams-inspired eye makeup scheme. It was a little wasted when one considered the starched white button-up and trousers, but they hadn’t exactly had the opportunity to go shopping for women’s clothing lately. Frederick was a little uncomfortable with how easily he was beginning to identify makeup brands.

The earrings were a nice touch, though.

“Do you want me to come along?” Frederick asked.

“Well...it’s really not the place for closet-cases, dear.”

“I take exception to that. And anyway, you told me you weren’t a--”

“And I’m not,” Abel said. “But I’m comfortable with what I am and I think we’re both pretty aware that you are not comfortable with what you are. Whatever that is. And I can guarantee you that you will be eaten alive if you set foot in that place.”

“Surely you’re being dramatic.”

“Do you want to chance it?” Abel asked. “Because I do actually want this apartment and I’m not willing to lose our shot at it because you can’t navigate a drag club.”

“I’m sorry, did you somehow forget how I routinely handled a hospital full of dangerous and often violent insane people? Of course I can navigate a drag club.”

“The difference between the hospital and the Killer Queen is not at all dissimilar to the difference between sliding into a bathtub and taking a dip in the Rio Tinto,” Abel said. “Your modus operandi won’t work. You cannot simply stroll in and be casually contemptuous of everyone there and expect to be successful in blending in. The S&M set aren’t present.”

“S&M?” Frederick asked.

“Stand and Model,” Abel said. “There are going to be a lot of divas but they are going to be wild. You will have to make an effort to be sociable. Even to pretend that these people are worthy of your respect. I have never once seen you make even so much as an attempt, Frederick.”

“This is so rich, coming from the pathological narcissist.”

“And liar,” Abel said brightly. “Which, much to your socially-malformed misfortune, you are not.”

“Fine. Do you not want me to come, then?”

“Well, I don’t not want you to come.”

"What does that mean?"

"Precisely what I said.  I'm not saying I want you along, but I don't not want it, either."  

“Are you sure?”

“Well, no. Hence my objections.”

“So what exactly are you saying?”

“I just want you to know that you’re going to have to perform and perform well if you’re going to come along.”

“I know that.”

“But can you do it?”

“I believe so.”

“But are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Because I’m not.”

Frederick thought seriously about tearing out his hair. “Then why don’t I just not go!”

“Oh, that’s very nice,” Abel said. “I’ll find a document forger, I’ll stake the place out, I’ll establish a routine of attending a drag club alone. You’ll probably want me to kill them on my own, too. Real fair, Frederick. I don’t know why I didn’t just escape without you.”

Frederick stared at Abel for a few moments before walking over to the wall beside the entrance to the bathroom and slowly beating his forehead against it.

He didn’t remember therapy being this hard.

***

Frederick felt terribly good about himself. He’d had a drink, smiled pleasantly, watched an extremely good stage show, and had more than a bit of pleasant conversation with some of the “ladies” present.

“I think that went just brilliantly,” he said, pushing Abel’s chair down the street and dodging very fit young people wearing small swimsuits and rollerblades. Abel waved a hand.

“Oh yes. No fights or drinks thrown in your face at all. I’m so proud.”

“Well, why don’t you just remember that the next time you get it into your head that I’m some kind of unsociable animal?”

“I will take it under advisement, my dear,” Abel replied. “Unsociable you are not, although I think some nuance was lost on you. For instance, I don’t think that you and Miss Ryna Plastie understood each other when she asked you if you were a vegetarian.”

Frederick frowned. “What else could she possibly have meant? I do not eat meat, so I am a vegetarian. You saw to that.”

Abel’s eyebrows jumped and he reached up to pat one of Frederick’s hands. “Do me a favor and don’t spread it around that I’m the reason you no longer put meat in your mouth,” Abel said. “It will destroy my reputation.”

Frederick rolled his eyes. “I’m not an imbecile. Of course I won’t mention it.”

Abel smirked quietly to himself.

***

grahamCracker RIGHT NOW opened memo on board HannibalFuckingLecterFuckingEatsPeopleYouDickfucks

grahamCracker: You two kill each other yet?  
chiltonHead RIGHT NOW responded to the memo.  
chiltonHead: No, not at all. I mean  
chiltonHead: Occasionally things are a little rocky.  
grahamCracker: Well, well, trouble in paradise. Rocky how?  
chiltonHead: Little things. He sings in the shower and it’s not bad but sometimes it sounds like he’s singing through his nose.  
chiltonHead: And, for some reason, it’s always a Bette Midler tune.  
cain’ttouchthis RIGHT NOW responded to the memo.  
cain’ttouchthis: What can I say? She’s more or less in my range.   
cain’ttouchthis: Be the Bette Midler you can be.  
grahamCracker: This is doing nothing to convince me you’re not a drag queen, Abel.  
cain’ttouchthis: Where is the trust, Will?  
chiltonHead: And you have that one playlist, I think it’s called “Can’t Be Tamed”?   
grahamCracker: No way.  
grahamCracker: Hannibal has a playlist called the exact same thing.  
chiltonHead: I’m sure he does, but does the playlist contain nothing but Katy Perry?   
cain’ttouchthis: She sings my life, shitlord.

***

Abel had gone in to visit the Fuchses an hour ago and Frederick was beginning to lose his cool.

He wasn’t cut out for murder. He really wasn’t. Hell, even surgery made him hopelessly queasy. He simply didn’t have the nerve.

He pulled out his phone.

thePriceisright RIGHT NOW opened memo on board CANNIBAL RUMPUS ASSHOLE FACTORY

thePriceisright: Fuck you, Beltway.  
thePriceisright: So, yeah, sorry, we’re going to be a little bit late to the dinner party.  
thePriceisright: SOMEONE wouldn’t ring off with her girlfriend and get in the damn car and then SOMEONE ELSE wouldn’t shave his face like a human being.  
thePriceisright: But we’re on the way now.  
katzouttathebag RIGHT NOW responded to the memo.  
katzouttathebag: What Jimmy means to say is that we’re about forty five minutes out.  
katzouttathebag: Does anybody need us to pick anything up on the way?  
goreMet RIGHT NOW responded to the memo.  
goreMet: Oh, no, just bring your excellent selves.  
goreMet: Jack is here and is perusing my wine collection. Alana popped outside for a bit of air and Will is proving himself just a bit clumsy with a blade.  
whineZeller RIGHT NOW responded to the memo.  
whineZeller: Sounds like the party’s in full swing! We’ll be there soon.

He honestly didn’t see the appeal of these idiots. They were so stupid--how could they not see the trap they were walking into?

For the love of God, it fucking rhymed. What more did they want? Frederick’s fingers hesitated over the keys, wondering if he should warn them or instruct them to call for backup.

Frederick lowered his phone with a sigh. No sense in incurring Dr. Lecter’s wrath. They wouldn’t catch Dr. Lecter before he had the chance to find Frederick and Abel, and between them they were already down enough fully-functioning limbs as it was.

His phone jangled in his lap.

cain’ttouchthis began chatting with chiltonHead

cain’ttouchthis: Come around to the front.

Frederick drove around the block and pulled up in front of The Killer Queen. Abel was waiting on the curb, waiting with the young man in leather straps on the curb and wearing a beatific expression.

“Hey there, handsome,” he smirked as Frederick reached out and opened the passenger’s side door. “Looking for a good time?”

“Unless I mistake you, you’ve already had one,” Frederick grumbled.

“Mind if I give you a boost, Abe?” said the young man in straps.

“Oh, Gustav, this isn’t necessary,” Abel demurred, even as he wrapped his arms around the young man’s neck.

“Hey, it’s my pleasure.” Gustav picked the man up with a clench of his bulging muscles and gently installed him in the passenger’s seat.

“Tch, thank you, darling, I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Abel said, patting the young man’s hand. Gustav closed the door with a grin. Abel rolled down the window as the young man folded the wheelchair up, stowing it in the backseat.

“See you next Tuesday, Abe?”

Abel pulled out a twenty dollar bill and pressed it into Gustav’s hand. “Of course, my love. Don’t you take a step from this spot until then. And send me those audition tapes, all right? I want to see what you’re up to, dear boy.”

“I will,” Gustav grinned. “G’night, guys.”

“Good night,” Frederick grunted.

“A bientot, darling,” Abel said, kissing his finger tips.

Frederick pulled away from the curb and rolled up the passenger’s side window. “Laying it on a bit thick, hmm?”

Abel pulled out his phone, checking the chat client. “Oh, he’s just a pathetic little gigolo with a coke habit and horrible self-esteem. He's like a puppy, starved for affection. Don’t be a jealous bitch, Frederick.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“Then don’t be a bitch, dear.” Abel sighed and put down his phone. “Anyway, it’s done,” he said, pulling a syringe out of his jacket pocket. “I don’t think we really even have to get rid of this, but we might as well.”

“What was it full of?”

“Air,” Abel shrugged. “Joel was hard of hearing and Ethel wasn’t precisely a spring chicken. They died in their sleep, peaceful and quiet.” He smiled. “It was so refreshing not to deal in too much blood. I don’t know why I don’t do it like that more often.”

“Here’s your chance to branch out, then,” Frederick grumbled.

***

whineZeller RIGHT NOW opened memo on board CANNIBAL RUMPUS ASSHOLE FACTORY

whineZeller: Hey! We’re here! Anybody home?  
whineZeller: Hellooo?  
whineZeller: This wine isn’t going to drink itself.  
whineZeller: Bev’s gone around back. Seriously, Hannibal, did you move without telling us?  
katzouttathebag RIGHT NOW responded to the memo.  
katzouttathebag: Call for back-up.  
katzouttathebag: Right now.  
katzouttathebag: Jimmy, get over here. We’re going in.

***

Abel rolled around the apartment of the late Joel and Ethel Fuchs, taking a careful stock of everything. “It’s very nice,” he said to the real estate agent. “What do you think, darling?”

Frederick tapped his fingers on the countertop. The view really was magnificent from here.

“It might be just what we’re looking for. How many bedrooms, again?”

“Three,” smiled the real estate agent. She had very white teeth and very orange lips. “And two bathrooms. And of course there’s the pool.”

“Of course,” Frederick said. “That would do for your physical therapy, my dear.”

“Mm,” Abel agreed. “Now, could you tell us the price again?”

The real estate agent’s expression tightened a little. “$800,000,” she grinned.

Abel turned at her with a fairly convincing look of shock. “Okay,” he said, “what’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing at all!” said the real estate agent. “The former owners passed away recently and the estate has asked us to sell it.”

“We’re not going to find corpses under the floorboards, are we?” Frederick asked, lifting his eyebrows.

“Oh, darling, don’t be morbid,” Abel said, sounding horrified. “Maybe we should look somewhere else…”

The real estate agent’s grin looked like it was about to crack. “Have you seen the walk-in closets yet?”

Abel let himself seem to be all grudging interest in the subject of large closets and followed her towards the bedrooms. Frederick paced towards the window to hide his smile.

***

They were sitting out by the pool at 2am. The street below was still full of people, but the evening’s show had ended hours ago and the thud of music was dying pleasantly beneath them.

They’d signed the forms two days ago. The transaction had cost half of Frederick’s life savings, a heart, a kidney, and a liver, plus seven pints of blood’s worth in forged documents, but now Friedrich Childress and Abraham Joash were the proud owners of a splendid apartment.

Frederick poured a third glass of white wine and held it out to Abel. Abel took it with a smile and Frederick put the last of the bottle in his own cup.

“To the best revenge,” Frederick said, holding up his glass.

“To getting rid of those hideous drapes you put up,” Abel replied, touching their glasses together.

Tonight’s lipcolor was MAC’s Tinted Lipglass in Razzledazzler, and it looked absolutely fabulous.


	2. Chapter 2

Abel and Frederick were in the habit of having breakfast together and it was a damn good thing they were. If left to his own devices Frederick would not have gotten up until 3PM and despite South Beach’s robust night life it was a little dull to miss so much of the day.

Abel was very good at mornings. His coffee kicked like a mule and he was the only person Frederick had ever known who was able to trick a toaster into producing properly-done bread.

“It appears that last night was quite exciting,” Abel said. Frederick was feeling blindly along the walls, in search of one of the bar stools.

“Mmgh?”

“Oh yes,” Abel murmured. The toaster made a popping noise and Frederick could hear Abel unceremoniously whack the toast back into the machine. “I do wonder what all happened.”

“Mm,” Frederick mumbled. He heard a cup’s bottom knock against the counter and felt around for the mug.

whineZeller RIGHT NOW opened memo on board CANNIBAL RUMPUS ASSHOLE FACTORY

whineZeller: Uh.  
whineZeller: Well.  
whineZeller: Do I even need to recap?  
whineZeller: Is there anybody on this board that doesn’t know what happened last night?  
tacoBellasupreme RIGHT NOW responded to the memo.  
tacoBellasupreme: I’m in the dark. Jack hasn’t woken up yet.  
tacoBellasupreme: I need you to tell me who to kill.  
whineZeller: Okay, so: we show up last night, kinda late, and no one’s answering the door.  
whineZeller: Bev goes ‘round the back and peeps in through the kitchen.  
whineZeller: Will and ABIGAIL HOBBS are lying on the ground. Will’s half-disemboweled and Abigail’s bleeding from the neck.  
whineZeller: I called for backup while Bev and Jimmy broke in.  
whineZeller: I busted in through the front. Jimmy found Jack in the wine closet bleeding from the neck.  
whineZeller: We kept Abigail breathing and we had Will holding himself together with a cutting board.  
thePriceisright RIGHT NOW responded to the memo.  
thePriceisright: Unglamorous, but it worked.  
thePriceisright: I tied a t-shirt around Jack’s neck and got Zeller to hold it while I checked the perimeter.  
thePriceisright: Found Alana around the side of the house, shoved through a window.  
thePriceisright: She had a bad concussion and a broken leg. Probably some hip damage, too, but she stayed conscious until the ambulance came.  
whineZeller: Couldn’t find Hannibal anywhere.  
whineZeller: As you can probably guess.  
whineZeller: Right now, Alana’s hurting but she’s going to be okay.  
thePriceisright: Abigail and Will are still critical. I’m guessing Jack is, too?  
tacoBellasupreme: Yes.  
thePriceisright: Let us know if there’s anything you need, Mrs. Crawford.  
tacoBellasupreme: I need Hannibal Fucking Lecter’s head on a fucking stake.  
whineZeller: We might be able to arrange a fucking steak.  
thePriceisright:   
thePriceisright: Every now and then I think I’ve seen the limit of your suicidal tendencies and then you always surprise me.  
whineZeller: That’s why I do it.  
whineZeller: I keep you young.  
thePriceisright: No, honey, that’s the cream I pinch from the morgue.  
thePriceisright: Mrs. Crawford, please, please excuse him.  
tacoBellasupreme: I have infinitely bigger fish to fry than Brian Zeller.   
tacoBellasupreme: I want all the information anyone gets on Hannibal Lecter, as soon as they get it.  
tacoBellasupreme: Excuse me. I’m going to take care of my husband.  
tacoBellasupreme banned herself from responding to the memo.  
thePriceisright: Also, if anyone hears anything about Bedelia, please have her call Katz.  
thePriceisright: Bev’s been calling her all night but the phone just rings and rings.  
whineZeller: In light of recent events, maybe we ought to change this chatboard name.  
cain’ttouchthis RIGHT NOW responded to the memo.  
cain’ttouchthis: Oh, now don’t let’s be drastic.  
whineZeller: Hi, Zorro.  
thePriceisright: Who even are you?  
cain’ttouchthis: Sorry, I really can’t say.  
cain’ttouchthis: But I am sorry to hear about this. Very dreadful. My best love to Will, if you please.  
whineZeller: Yeah.  
whineZeller: Uh.  
whineZeller: So.  
whineZeller: Just keep in touch, guys.

“Predictable,” Abel sighed.

Frederick grumbled a bleary interrogative noise into his coffee.

“Hannibal did a bit of a slice and dice. Got almost all of them.”

“Saw that coming,” Frederick mumbled. How did he get his eyes open, again? He knew he’d done it before. Man shouldn’t have to face these struggles so early in the morning.

“I suppose we’ll have to wait and see who makes it.”

“Mm.”

***

Frederick had to get a job.

They weren’t rich, precisely, although he couldn’t claim that they were broke. Abel’s new career wasn’t flourishing--no sense in calling attention to themselves--but it kept them fairly comfortable.

(If he’d only known before how much a kidney went for. Goodbye, student loans.)

But it was so easy to get bored. He liked having all morning to read the newspaper and drink coffee, and the whole afternoon to read and people watch in cafés, but without purpose he found himself feeling dull.

“Well, why don’t you come to work with me?” Abel asked, texting something one-handed as he plopped a chilled liver onto a scale. “We do need to find a way to break you of your squeamishness, since all of my previous attempts have availed us nothing.”

“Yeah, nice aversion therapy technique, Abel, very subtle,” Frederick groused. “I don’t want to go about the place murdering people.”

“No one ever wants to,” Abel said patiently. “Well. No one ever wants to start, anyway. It’s like drinking schnapps. At first it just happens, and it’s only when you’re midway in that it starts getting good.”

“Schnapps is vile.”

“Spoken like a true pacifist, Frederick.” Abel put the liver back in its preservative solution. “Here, pop that in the fridge, won’t you?”

Frederick returned to the kitchen table and glowered down at the crossword puzzle. “What on earth do people even do in Miami Beach?” he asked.

“I’m given to understand that is has to do with beaches,” Abel replied, frowning at his phone. “You know, sea, sand, physical fitness, Speedos, that whole nightmare.”

“You can’t build an entire city on sand,” Frederick said, allowing himself a little grin at his own cleverness.

Eyes on his screen, Abel reached behind him, patting the counter in search of something. He found an orange and blindly lobbed it at Frederick’s head.

Frederick caught the orange and began peeling it. “Surely there must be museums and theatres,” he mused.

“You could sing downstairs."

"Isn't that more your thing?"

"I am a transvestite, not a drag queen," Abel replied.  "I am not impersonating a woman, thank you."

"Well, I don't think I'm going to be confused for one any time soon, either."

"If you’d shave the beard and let me do your makeup, you could make it happen.  You've got quite good cheekbones."

Frederick rubbed the rakish growth on his jaw. In the fish camps, razors could not be found for love nor money, and he’d let it grow out a bit as a way to obscure some of his identity. “Maybe I could just tease it out. Sculpt it a little. Maybe give it frosted tips?”

Abel looked up from his phone and gave him a considering look. “Bit of a Mathu Anderson thing?’

“Yeah.” Frederick ate a snit of orange.

“Your name could be Carl Hung.”

“Too obvious.”

“Anna Rexia Nervosa.”

“Hm.”

“Jocasta Complex.”

“Oh, that one’s good,” Frederick nodded. “Maybe I should work on my Barbra Streisand impersonation. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Drag queen names. Maybe Eva Cerasian?”

“Hm. If I ever decide to do the performance thing, I’ll consider it,” Abel said thoughtfully. “Now, I suggest you go do the grocery shopping. My bag man wants to drop by and he might get spooked if he sees you.”

“Spooked?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“So you’re saying he’s gutless.”

This time, Abel’s blind groping found a teacup.

***

whineZeller RIGHT NOW opened memo on board IT FUCKING RHYMED

whineZeller: Just posting with the new chatboard title.  
whineZeller: Thanks to Frederick Chilton for the inspo.  
katzouttathebag RIGHT NOW responded to the memo.  
katzouttathebag: The docs are pretty sure Will and Abigail are going to make it.  
katzouttathebag: And Jack’s okay. Not great, but okay. He and Mrs. Crawford are together and I think they’re going to clear him pretty soon.  
katzouttathebag: Bedelia, if you’re reading this: please call me.   
katzouttathebag: I know you’re hiding somewhere but we can protect you from him if you’ll just tell me where you are.  
katzouttathebag: I love you and I’m really scared for you.  
katzouttathebag: Please give me a call.  
xxxphile 3 HOURS LATER responded to the memo.  
xxxphile: Oh, Beverly.  I have never loved, and I have never been loved, as when I was with you. You are my star and I love you more than I ever thought I could love another living being. I would give anything for you, risk anything, do anything. And a thousandfold more than that would I stake for us, for our love.  
katzouttathebag: Bedelia.  
xxxphile: My sweet Beverly! And yet I know I would be unworthy of you if I did not try to live by my duty and my responsibilities. And so I am pried away from you, though I feel my soul every moment clawing back towards your radiant heart.  
katzouttathebag: Bedelia.  
xxxphile: Every second with you is a return to the heaven that was Eden. You encompass paradise in your arms, salvation in the press of your lips. I feel as if I could become whole again, reenter into life if I can but live like and with you. But I, a fated Lucifer cursed to dwell in the flat circle of time, am thrown as of old from the heart and seat of bliss into an abyss I cannot fathom--and yet I need must, although it means I leave you here and risk the love we shared for too brief a time.  
xxxphile: I love you so much, ma minette. With a soul full of fire, crying out 'forever, forever,' I love you.  
xxxphile: Please, forgive me.  
katzouttathebag: Bedelia, pick up your phone.  
katzouttathebag: Please.  
xxxphile: The number you’re calling doesn’t reach me anymore.   
xxxphile: Goodbye, my darling.  
xxxphile banned herself from responding to the memo.  
xxxphile unbanned herself from responding to the memo.  
xxxphile: Oh! And I left Erasmus in your apartment. Could you please take care of him while I’m gone? He needs a cup of dog food twice daily. Morning and evenings are good. And he's used to sleeping at the foot of the bed so he might want to join you tonight. And he has his favorite squeaky duck with him, so just toss it for him a few times and he's happy. Thank you, cara mia, I love you!  
xxxphile banned herself from responding to the memo.  
katzouttathebag: Oh my God.  
thePriceisright RIGHT NOW responded to the memo.  
thePriceisright: Who is Erasmus?  
katzouttathebag: Her fucking Persian Greyhound.  
thePriceisright: She left her dog with you?  
katzouttathebag: Oh.  
katzouttathebag: My.  
katzouttathebag: God.  
katzouttathebag: I’m bringing the chops we were going to have for dinner to the lab.  
whineZeller RIGHT NOW responded to the memo.  
whineZeller: Why?  
thePriceisright: Three guesses, genius.  
whineZeller: Oh. OH.  
katzouttathebag: YUP  
katzouttathebag: Bedelia, you’re officially the worst girlfriend I’ve ever had.  
thePriceisright: Which, honestly? Congratulations.   
thePriceisright: That IS an achievement. 

***

Abel was doing a lot of research on something and was taking pains to hide it from Frederick.

Frederick knew this because old habits died hard and the Internet search history on their shared laptop was always conspicuously empty when he looked up the hours that Abel had used the computer.

He shouldn’t pry. The privacy they accorded one another was as absolute as possible and Frederick knew that their whole arrangement would explode if he didn’t abide by the unspoken rules. Abel was no longer his patient and more importantly was the household breadwinner, even if it was mostly sweetbreads.

Still, he had a right to protect himself, didn’t he? Who knew what Abel could be up to? A few months of camaraderie and ridiculous pet names did not change the fact that they’d forcibly gotten under each other’s skin and wrecked the place. Abel could be doing research that could spell Frederick’s doom.

On the other hand, there wasn’t too much that Abel could do to him without endangering himself. It wasn’t particularly likely if only because the great thing about narcissists was that they tended not to be willing to sacrifice themselves, even to royally fuck someone else over. If Abel wanted to kill or hurt him, it would have to be decently and privately, within the confines of their own apartment.

So. What was he looking for?

Frederick kept checking their laptop. Sooner or later Abel would slip.

***

“Oh. Hello.”

“Mmm?”

“We’ve been invited to a new chat group.”

“Hm.”

“Drink your coffee, dear, you’re sub-verbal.”

goreMet RIGHT NOW opened memo on board OnTheLamb

goreMet: Hello and welcome, Drs. Chilton and Gideon.  
goreMet: Are you enjoying your exile?  
cain’ttouchthis RIGHT NOW responded to the memo.  
cain’ttouchthis: Ah, Dr. Lecter! How nice to hear from you.  
cain’ttouchthis: Frederick will not be joining us at the moment, I’m afraid.   
cain’ttouchthis: He is still waking up and he’s one of those people who shouldn’t operate heavy machinery until about two PM.  
cain’ttouchthis: Which in hindsight is illuminating, when you consider the fact that all of our therapy sessions were morning affairs.  
cain’ttouchthis: I, as ever, must be the cogent one.  
cain’ttouchthis: Are you safely tucked away somewhere?  
goreMet: We shall be, very presently.  
cain’ttouchthis: We? Ah. That’s right. You must mean Dr. DuMaurier.  
goreMet: Indeed.  
goreMet: A modern-day Ruth, to leave all the world behind and suffer danger for the sake of a friend.  
cain’ttouchthis: And will she die where you die?  
goreMet: It is not outside of the realm of possibility, but as you know, Dr. Gideon, I am not prophet.  
goreMet: It is entirely possible that I will die where she dies.  
cain’ttouchthis: Fair enough. My condolences to Dr. DuMaurier on her recent break-up.  
goreMet: I will extend them to her. She is utterly inconsolable. Even as I speak she’s drafting love letters on cocktail napkins.  
cain’ttouchthis: I’m pleased to hear how well you’re bearing up for her. It’s hard to be the strong one.  
cain’ttouchthis: How’s Will Graham?  
goreMet: I am given to understand that his situation is unlikely to be terminal at this point, although he may suffer some trauma as a result.  
cain’ttouchthis: And how does that make you feel, doctor?  
goreMet: Let us simply say that Bedelia does not have the market on inconsolability cornered.  
cain’ttouchthis: Tch, so very sad. I’m so sorry to hear that.  
cain’ttouchthis: Well, it shall all work out for the best eventually, I’m sure.  
goreMet: Naturally.  
goreMet: We’ll send you some postcards. Hello to Dr. Chilton. I hope he’s well.

“Prick,” Abel grumbled. “‘Boo hoo, I psychologically tortured and denied necessary medical treatment to my boyfriend and then gutted him and left him for dead and now he’s mad at me, weh, weh, weh.’”

“Uh,” Frederick said, eager to remind Abel of their own history.

“Don’t even start with me,” Abel said. “I never psychologically tortured you and while I did gut you, I made sure I didn’t leave you for dead.”

Frederick hummed. Coffee was finally entering his bloodstream and he could pry his eyes open. “If anything, you provided unnecessary medical treatment.”

“Exactly,” Abel said. He gave Frederick a considering look. “Speaking of which, I have an extra kidney, a very nice plump one. How about I just…” He performed a complicated gesture with his fingers and made a wet noise with his tongue and teeth.

Frederick felt a shudder tickle down his spine. “Maybe later,” he hedged.

***

Abel was the cogent one because he was the one who awoke most rapidly.

In the fish camp they’d had one room to do all their living in and that meant sleeping without several bolts and bars between them. For the first two weeks, Frederick had insisted upon taking watches.

He’d slept very fitfully in the fish camp. He had not doubted that Abel had needed him but he also never doubted that Abel had still hated him. That last thing he had wanted was to wake up one morning sans spleen, sans eyes, sans tongue, sans everything.

Abel, on the other hand, slept deep, calm in the conviction that he was the more ruthless and bloodthirsty of the two of them. Frederick wondered if he should be insulted, if it was some kind of obscure insult that Gideon didn’t perceive him as even remotely constituting a threat.

It wasn’t until he watched how Abel woke up that he decided that even if the insult was intentional, it wasn’t unfounded. Compared with Baltimore, nothing was ever going to seem like a threat to either of them again.

Frederick had been drinking swamp-water coffee and trying to read a very bad paperback they’d found in a convenience store on the highway when he had the opportunity to watch his former patient regain consciousness. It happened in nearly no time at all--one moment Abel was asleep, still and silent, and the next he was shifting and frowning deeply. Frederick looked up from his book in time to see Abel’s body heave a sudden, wrenching jerk and hear him gasp aloud, eyes flying open and legs (remains of legs) kicking out.

Abel struggled to sit up, his breathing harsh even as he tried to stifle it. The first thing he checked were his legs, reaching down with his left hand to cover the end of one stump with his fingers and sighing softly.

“All right,” Abel had said. He rubbed his face with his right hand.

“Hmm?”

“Your turn.”

“Ah.”

“Good night.”

“...yes.”

Frederick lay down with his back turned and his eyes open. His curiosity was almost unbearable. Obviously Abel had had a nightmare and obviously it was about Dr. Lecter. Had he been awake for the amputation? Had he been given any anesthesia?

Had he eaten any of it?

It was a psychological gold mine and Abel would tack his tongue to the floor if he asked about it.

Unfair.

***

He was passing an antique shop while out and about later that day, accommodating the skittishness of Abel's bag man.  Frederick took one look in the window and very nearly dropped his Pessac-Leognan White Bordeaux. It would have been a loss for humanity and fortunately Frederick kept his grip, even in the face of overwhelming love at first sight.

“Oh,” he murmured, staring in the window. “Oh, hello.”

***

He would now actually need a job for monetary purposes, he knew, but he was delighted with her all the same. He found there to be a pleasing irony in the fact that every member of the household had had to lose something before they’d been able to enter the apartment.

Never mind that she didn’t “lose” parts as much as she’d had them briefly removed. It was a rite of passage all the same.

She was magnificent, tall and dark with the most heavenly curves. Frederick ran a hand along her sides and tickled her gently with the tips of his fingers.

She was a Steinway and she was absolutely fabulous.

The piano tuners had left just a few minutes ago and Frederick and the Steinway were exquisitely alone. Abel wouldn’t be back for an hour or two, surely; he’d wandered down to Promenade with the laptop for a bit. Frederick’s paranoia told him that Abel left to keep Frederick from spying on his search history. Instead of arguing, Frederick’s reason admitted that it wasn’t at all sure that the former transplant surgeon wasn’t on to him.

Frederick sat on her bench and stretched his fingers. He hadn’t played since college, and he was sure to be terribly rusty, but he reached out with one finger and hit the middle C.

Frederick closed his eyes with a smile. Those tuners knew their work.

He’d have to buy some sheet music. He should run down to the gas station sometime soon and get one of those prepaid visa cards so he could buy things online, because God knew being confined to local shops was beginning to try even his ingenuity.

He mindlessly picked out a few bars of Fur Elise. He remembered playing an enormous amount of classical music in his university days, but he did have some party-pleasers. What was that tune?

C, D-D, G, B-G, G, B...sometimes I feel I've got to…

“Run away, I've got to...get away,” Frederick murmured, trying to remember how the rest of the piano part went. He grinned--he didn’t sound bad! Since his career had become rather demanding, he’d confined most of his musical endeavors to the shower and the odd hairbrush. And since he’d found himself unceremoniously jobless and incarcerated, even that little bit had entirely evaporated.

He sang the song through and dawdled for a while, long enough to run his hands up and down the keyboard.

Did he remember any of the Boy George stuff he used to play?

Forty minutes later, he was pleased to discover that he’d picked out the better portions of Petrified from memory alone and could play it more or less all the way through. He found himself leaning into the piano. The accompaniment was so simple, and if he could get a drum machine and a few horns together, he would have something really rather special. He had to make up for it with his voice.

“Hate the way you look at me...like you can tell so much about my life, my life. Assassinate so carelessly, so assured how sweet you twist the knife…” This was a song that had to be belted. There was no other way to do it--without a commitment to the song it just fell flat.

Frederick leaned further into it, breathing into his diaphragm and ignoring the faint strain and tug that reminded him that there wasn’t as much diaphragm as there once had been. It reminded him of singing in the car, as he’d done whenever business or pleasure took him out of Baltimore. Being alone in the car with the music cranked up much too loud, his voice so entirely swamped by the sound from the speakers that he couldn’t hear when his voice cracked and scraped. Burning down the highway with the fingers of one hand tucked inside his collar, feeling the vibration of his larynx as his voice opened and his breaths carried long, clear notes.

“Are you petrified…?” he crooned, playing the last few notes of the song. He lifted his hands away from the keyboard with a smile.

From across the room, he heard the unmistakable noise of genteel clapping.

Frederick’s head shot up.

Oh yes.

He was absolutely petrified.

Abel Gideon was sitting just inside the doorway of the apartment and looking at him with the pursed lip smile of the unforgivably smug.

“Frederick,” Abel purred, “darling. I had no idea you were such a star!”

Frederick leapt up from the piano, face aflame, and grabbed his cane. “Oh, get out.”

“No, I don’t think I shall,” Abel murmured. He wheeled himself into the living room and towards the piano. He ran a hand along the ridge of the body. “From whence comes this magnificent beast?”

“Impulse purchase,” Frederick admitted. He let his fingers brush over an octave of her keys.

“I hope to heaven you didn’t spend money like this when it was just you,” Abel remarked. “I saw that White Bordeaux in the kitchen, too. You must be assuming I’ll be your sugar daddy for the foreseeable future.”

Frederick rolled his eyes.

“Well, come on, give us a song,” Abel said, crossing his fingers across his lap. “Perhaps something from the Whitney Houston Songbook?”

Frederick frowned and cracked his knuckles.

Fine.

Abel could smirk all he liked because Frederick was limbered up enough for How Will I Know and the accompaniment wasn’t at all difficult. He launched into I’m Every Woman quite soon after, willing to take advantage of his momentum.

He claimed later that he could have done without the enthusiastic clapping of the passersby outside the Killer Queen, but when Abel’s back was turned he did blow a kiss from the window.

*** 

They didn’t go every night, of course, but at least once a week they put in an appearance at the Killer Queen.

 “Hello, Abe!” Gustav said.  He was working the door in a pair of tight white shorts and a sailor’s cap, perched in his head at a jaunty angle.

“Hello, darling,” Abel murmured, leaning up to kiss the young man on both cheeks.  “You remember Friedrich, of course.”

“Good evening,” Frederick said.  For some time he’d wondered if he shouldn’t practice his German accent for the role before deciding that he might as well not give himself too many opportunities to slip up.

“Hello, Mr. Childress,” Gustav said.  Obviously Frederick was never going to be a favorite the way “Abe” was.  “Abe, Georges wants to be sure that you’ll stay for the encore.  He’d love to have a drink with you and of course Mr. Childress.”

“Thank you, my love, we’ll certainly stay,” Abel said.  He wheeled himself into the club and made a beeline for a table.

“Georges?” Frederick asked, sitting down next to him.

“The owner,” Abel replied.  “Well.  One of the owners.  Albin, or rather Zaza, is of course the other.”

“Of course,” Frederick mumbled.  The aging “starlet” was the main attraction at the Killer Queen and Frederick had to admit that she certainly sang well enough to deserve partial ownership of the venue that hosted her.

The impressive thing about drag shows, in Frederick’s opinion, was the considerable athleticism.  Everything else was artwork and lipsyncing, mostly.  But the elaborate, energetic dance routines under those hot stage lights?  And in six-inch heels?  He was in awe.

Now that he’d picked up piano again, he found himself tapping the necessary keystrokes for the musical numbers on the table.  Abel poked a fruity cocktail into his hands, visibly annoyed by his unnecessary contribution to the musical offerings of the night.

It would be rude to take out his mobile during the performance, so he recorded some mental notes as inspiration struck.  He should pick up the sheet music for Hot Stuff.  His Donna Summer impression wasn’t great, but if he knocked it down just a few keys he could sing it perfectly well.  

Zaza appeared on stage for her performance and was greeted with armfuls of flowers and raucous cheers.  From the love-mad gigolos at the bars to the middle-class couples out for a walk on the wild side to a table’s worth of elderly, stately queens tapping quietly on the backs of their hands for their applause, everyone in the Killer Queen paid homage to Zaza.

Abel knocked on the table with his knuckles.  “You’ve got to hand it to her, she’s going strong,” he admitted.

“She must be eighty.”

“Ninety.  And such a grand dame.”

Zaza performed a bawdy comedy sprinkled with musical numbers.  She was only on stage for about half an hour and Frederick wondered what she must have been like when she was young.

The finale closed out the evening, Zaza the stationary, singing crown jewel centering a whirlwind of feathers, glitter, and high heels.  As the ladies disappeared back behind the curtains and the house lights came back up, Frederick saw that he had half an ostentatious purple cocktail to finish.

Abel was drinking a beer with his pinky finger in the air.

“So why is Georges eager to see you?” Frederick asked.  “Is it about the apartment?”

“Oh, no,” Abel murmured.  “Georges and Albin downsized years before the Fuchs bought the place.  I’m sure it’s nothing to do with that.”

Frederick drank his ridiculous cocktail.  “Perhaps it is Gustav’s big break.”

“Aha, that I doubt,” Abel smirked.  “Don’t get me wrong, the boy’s a darling, I’m sure.  But he’s infinitely better suited to finishing that law degree of his.  Or perhaps working as a stripper until things start to sag.”  Abel reached out and patted Frederick’s arm enthusiastically.  “Not a patch on your wonderful talent, my darling,” he drawled.

Frederick rolled his eyes.  

“I mean, enough hand-eye coordination to play three notes at the same time, all while talking in a slow, rhythmic pattern?  You are truly one of the shining stars of our generation.”  

“Coming from you, this is fawning adoration,” Frederick grumbled, watching an elderly man appear from around the side of the sound stage.  He was dressed entirely in black, with the exception of a large silver pendant around his neck, and wore his full white hair slicked back.  His moustache twitched upwards as he approached them.

“Ah, Abraham, you blossom of youth,” the man said, taking Abel’s offered hand and kissing it.  

Abel tittered.  Frederick was shocked.  It was remarkably good tittering.  “I’m 52, Georges, you shameless flatterer.  Positively a crone.”

“Nonsense.  In a world of wine, you’re whiskey.  You’re just getting good,” Georges winked.  He finally deigned to notice Frederick.  “Ah!  Mr. Childress!  What an absolute pleasure,” Georges said, shaking Frederick’s hand. 

Frederick rose from his seat.  “How do you do,” he said, nodding.

“Georges, I beg you, sit down,” Abel said.  “You’ll make me nervous.”

“Oh, pardon me.  Albin will not join us at the moment, he's got some matters of his own to attend to.”  Georges sat down and a waiter appeared at his elbow with a gin and tonic.  “Anything else for you gentlemen?”

Frederick gestured for another silly cocktail.  They weren’t bad.  

“So, Mr. Childress, we understand that you are a musician,” Georges said.

“Oh,” Frederick replied.  “Ah, well, I have some training.  More of an avocation, of course.”

“Of course.  A labour of love,” Georges murmured.

“We purchased a grand piano just yesterday,” Abel volunteered, taking Frederick’s spare hand and petting his knuckles with a thumb.  “I’m sure you heard it.”

“Indeed, indeed I did.  Masterful stuff!”

“You’re too kind,” Frederick smiled.  He was.  Something wasn’t right here.  Frederick squeezed Abel’s hand.

“And of course you must have heard him singing,” Abel said.

“Oh yes,” Georges smiled.  “It did take us some moments to get it working--I’m afraid anything much newer than a horseless buggy is tricky for us these days.”  

“I’m sorry?” Frederick smiled, horrified.

“Abraham sent us your audition tape, of course,” Georges said.  “Very impressive stuff, Mr. Childress.  We are looking for a pianist at the moment and we might need another tenor or two.  Of course we’re well stocked with ladies, but real voices are cherished, you see.”

"I see."  

Abel’s smile tightened along with Frederick’s fist.  “Friedrich, darling, are you all right?” he asked stiffly.

“Perfectly well, thank you, dearest,” Frederick said, his stare promising Abel unrelenting torment for this deception.  Abel would have no secrets unhunted, no traumas unmocked, no rest, no privacy, and no escape when their tenuous trust had been so utterly violated in this hideous manner.

“Only I know you’ve been looking for a job,” Abel chirped, his mouth a hard line, voice sharp and sweet as ice as Frederick held his hand like a vise.  “And of course you’re such a talent, darling.”

Oh.  Yes.  Well.

“Oh yes,” Frederick said, his grip easing a little.  “Well.  That’s true.  But I’m sure I’m not enough of a performer to do this venue any credit--”

“Let’s not be hasty,” Georges said.  He lowered his voice.  “Why not give it a chance, hmm?  A little matinee experiment, if you like.  Sundays we are closed, of course, but perhaps next Saturday?”  Georges pulled a business card out of his jacket pocket.  “My card--although of course you live upstairs.”

“I’m sure I really couldn’t--”

“Don’t talk shit, darling,” Abel interrupted.  

“Give it a little thought,” Georges added.  He smiled, the consummately flawless host.  “Another round of drinks for you, my dears?”

“Ah, no, we must get home,” Abel said, fawning a little.  “Thank you so much for everything, Georges, you’re our patron saint.  We’ll be in touch very soon.”

“Yes,” Frederick sighed, defeated.  “A pleasure to meet you.”

Georges shook his hand.  “And to meet you. If nothing else comes of it, I do hope we shall be friends--always good to meet another music lover.”

“Oh, indeed,” Frederick murmured.

Abel led the way out the Killer Queen.  Frederick dawdled a little, looking around.  

No, he couldn’t perform here.  He wasn’t a drag queen, which was sort of a big deal here.  It was gawdy and grand, and he was so unsuited for it, surely...and not just for it, but for any musical occupation.  

Surely.

And Abel had no business interfering!

He caught up to Abel and put a hand on the back of the man’s neck as they approached the doors.

“What possessed you to film me without my consent?” Frederick hissed in Abel’s ear.

Abel stopped and looked at him with an expression of such venomous wryness that Frederick was almost taken aback.  “Oh, that is so fucking rich, coming from you,” he replied.  He started moving again, getting them out the door.

“It was surveillance, and it’s beside the point,” Frederick growled as they moved down the sidewalk.  “You should never have filmed me, much less sent it as an audition tape to a drag nightclub!”

“Oh, bullshit,” Abel replied.  “You need a job, they need a pianist--and that’s not the first time that joke’s been made in that nightclub, I’m certain--so why don’t you suck it up and do something that you’re good at?  Not many people can play that well, just picking out the notes by ear.  And at least if you perform in a drag club you won’t be actively destroying anyone’s psychological well-being.”

“You can’t know that,” Frederick grumbled.

“You need to do something,” Abel insisted.  “You’re spinning your wheels.  Take a fucking chance for once, you unbearably boring coward.”

Frederick winced a little at the harshness of Abel’s voice.  The realization that Abel hadn’t sounded that disgusted in him in some time hit him like a plate over the head.  

They rounded the block and headed along the side of the building towards the back entrance. 

“Coward, am I?” Frederick said quietly as they followed the sidewalk at a slow pace.

“Oh yes,” Abel said.  “Hidebound and reactionary.  You have nothing to lose by at least trying this.  Georges was all over you, on his knees and begging--and I think it was only his regrettable arthritis that kept him from making that literal.”  Abel eyed him with a nasty smirk.  “You aren’t quite his type, methinks, but that beard is so rugged.”

Frederick rolled his eyes.  “Why is Georges so interested?  Even if I’m good, he must have his pick of talent.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Abel murmured.  “He thinks we’re gay as geese and richer than God.  He’s looking for future owners.”

“Oh,” Frederick said.  “Oh.  Well.  He’s in for a nasty surprise there, isn’t he?”

"In what sense?"

"Well, all of them.  Especially the buying-the-nightclub part."

Abel hummed thoughtfully as they entered the foyer.  Frederick helped him hop the doorjamb.  “Thank you.  Perhaps he is.  Even so, he's an artist and mere financial considerations would not overmaster his taste, Frederick. He would not ask you to play if he didn’t think you could.”

“But that’s nonsense,” Frederick argued.

Abel backed into the elevator.  “No, nothing of the kind.  He knows you’re not going to dance, not with that cane and probably not at your age, although you are just the most delectable 43 about the place.  But you can sing, darling, and how many people were lip-syncing tonight?”

“Oodles,” Frederick admitted.  He slid into the elevator and hit the button for the top floor.  “And you think that’s enough?”

“Wealthy, handsome man plays piano, sings well, lives above drag night club with transvestite partner?”  Abel gave him a sarcastic smile.  The elevator dinged and the doors slid open on their living room.  “Frederick, I’ll think you’re growing thick."

“On what subject, might I ask?” a voice from the kitchen inquired.  

Frederick stiffened and swallowed hard.  Abel’s face blanched and his hands tightened painfully on the arms of his wheelchair.  

Hannibal Lecter walked into the living room, wiping his hands on the apron tied around his waist.  Behind him, Bedelia DuMaurier appeared, tired, tear-stained, and smiling, a vision with four wine glasses and the bottle of White Bordeaux in her hands.  

“Ah, Dr. Tarr, Professor Fether, we meet at last," Bedelia said. "How charming to finally make your acquaintance. So sorry to just barge in.  We had some flight trouble and thought we’d make use of the lay-over."

“We tried to call,” Hannibal said, smiling at them.  “But you know how spotty reception can be around here.  We apologize for the rudeness in just letting ourselves in, but we knew you wouldn't turn away two old friends.”

"I hope you're hungry," Bedelia smiled.  

"We picked up dessert: a nice bottle of port and this exquisite little Sacher torte from the bakery down the street."

"And schnecken for breakfast tomorrow morning."

"After all, when the schnecken beckons," Hannibal grinned.

"As for dinner tonight, we thought perhaps pesto and linguine would go best with the White Bordeaux,” Bedelia added.  “Would you care for a glass?  Dinner will be ready in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

He would feel a sick sense of guilt about it later, but in the moment it was a feather in Frederick’s cap that Abel was the one that fainted, and not him.


End file.
